


Memory

by Gayships4days



Category: Agent Carter - Fandom, MCU, Marvel
Genre: :), Gen, Knives, Mother/Daughter relationship, POV Dottie Underwood, dottie is fed up with this shit, help i don't know how to tag, yelena is a clingy bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayships4days/pseuds/Gayships4days
Summary: "Do you remember my story about the Englishwoman? The one that put me out of action?" A nod. "This, this knife.... I was going to kill her with this knife. She-she was at my mercy, I could've- I could've just- I could've just...." I wanted to say killed her so desperately but the dull aching in my heart became too much and I had to look away.





	Memory

Memory 

 

Crisp, cold, unyielding: a Russian snowfall. No, a Russian blizzard. The snow came in harsh flurries that made even the hardiest of Russians bodies go numb. And yet, I sought out no heat, despite the halls of the Red Room being unheated and colder than the temperature of the outside. 

My companion, little Yelena, was faring remarkably well, only shivering in intervals. Pride gave me a warm feeling in my chest, although I'd never admit it. Pride is an emotion. Emotion would not be tolerated. After the third time the five year old had demanded they throw knives, I decided it would be beneficial to let the girl train. This idea definitely wasn't spurred on from my annoyance at the repetition. 

We made good time, the walk only taking us two minutes. Unexpectedly, the throwing range had a few girls practicing technique under the watchful eye of a trainer there. Needless to say, the students and handlers both made a hasty exit at the sight of me and my demonic ward. Good. I was still feared. I wouldn't have it any other way. 

I was swiftly dragged from my reverie when I felt the pressure on my hand released. Little Satan had made a beeline towards the array of blades on the rotting table in the corner, pausing once she got there to survey the table of treats. After a few moments passed by, Yelena turned towards the targets with a small pocketknife in hand. Like every other knife in the assortment, the pocketknife was imbalanced and didn't fit correctly in the small child's hand. It was an issue they were yet to address, however when the knife missed the target completely and landed with a depressing thunk. This issue had to be addressed. And soon. 

Eyes as blue as the sea on those postcards I'd seen about America looked up at me, uncertainty flashing across the wide orbs. It was a look I knew well, I'd seen it oft enough. I'd seen it Anya's eyes when she had taken my token of forbidden "friendship". I'd seen it in Anya's eyes before she assumed a fighting stance. I'd seen it in Peggy in the brief moments before I pressed my lips to hers. She needed reassurance. Such a crime as completely missing a target was usually punishable by a beating, although I would never do such a thing to the tiny koala. It wasn't my way. 

I offered no vocal reassurances, especially since I did not know how, I simply crouched on one knee and beckoned her over. I could help. For once I could be of help. Yelena tentatively stumbled over, slight caution in her clear azure eyes. With trepidation, my hand ventures to my trouser pocket. My trouser pocket holding a silver-hilted switchblade. My switchblade. Air seemed to catch in my throat. Was I really considering what I thought I was considering? No. Yes. Maybe? Then, one look in the girls eyes solidified what I was about to do. 

"Yelena." I started, my tone cool and flat, much calmer than the jackhammer in my chest. "This is my knife." I pulled out the silver beauty and demonstrated how it worked, how to get the blade from the hilt. Yelena's eyes watched carefully, memorising the movements, trying to figure out where I was going. "It's yours now."

"Mine?" She asked, almost confused. 

"Yours. This-this knife means a lot to me. Remember that."

"Why?" Why indeed. Part of me selfishly wanted to keep it, however the small fingers of my ward clasping the balanced blade made me certain of my actions. 

"Do you remember my story about the Englishwoman? The one that put me out of action?" A nod. "This, this knife.... I was going to kill her with this knife. She-she was at my mercy, I could've- I could've just- I could've just...." I wanted to say killed her so desperately but the dull aching in my heart became too much and I had to look away. 

"Why didn't you kill her, тетя?" There was that term of endearment again, Aunt. I was no aunt. I am no aunt. And yet it felt.... right. She wasn't dead yet so I suppose I could live with the shuddering. 

"The SSR got in the way. They were looking for their agent and I thought it would be more practical to step out their way than blow my cover and stab her." And I didn't want to. Like god I didn't want to. Yelena, nodding in comprehension, held her newly attained knife to her in the same way Americans hold dolls to them. 

"You liked her." The statement caught me off guard, I nearly staggered back. My preference for the weaker sex was not something that I flaunted and I was surprised to say the least that the toddler could read me so easily. For reasons still eluding me, I didn't put my walls of ice back up and push her out as I have done to so many (ex)Soviet therapists and brain washers alike. I nodded. I nodded and let my pain show. 

Slowly, I lowered myself onto the freezing concrete floor and gestured for Yelena to do the same. There, in those positions, we remained for hours, until the end of the blizzard, whilst I rambled about my lost love and Yelena played with her new implement of torture. It was a cold world, but maybe it didn't have to be so cold.


End file.
